


Storm's End

by InnerSpectrum



Series: Mystrade is Our Division Prompts [31]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Facebook: Mystrade is our Division Fic Prompts, M/M, Mystrade Prompt Challenge, Mystrade is our Division FB Fic Prompts, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 19:12:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17855399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InnerSpectrum/pseuds/InnerSpectrum
Summary: Mycroft finally comes home three days after Sherlock's suicide to someone unexpected waiting for him...





	Storm's End

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Mystrade is our Division FB Fic Prompts | Storm

It had stormed for three days after everything went down.

It was fitting to Mycroft Holmes’ mood.

He had spent those days at Diogenes not wanting to deal with anyone at headquarters and their false pity at the loss of his baby brother. Mycroft was aware of how much of a thorn Sherlock was to them. That it was often, though not always, justified was irrelevant. He also did not care to deal with the disdain of their non-shock - heartless bastard they knew him to be of course - that he was back at work.  

Well, Lady Elizabeth Smallwood knew better, but other than a voicemail reminder that she was in office – read _if you need to talk I’m_ _here for you,_ as if he would call her at a time like this – she had been silent. He would sooner call Dr. Molly Hooper first, at least she knew the truth about his brother.

_And that was NEVER going to happen._

At least Mycroft's natural stoicism helped lend veracity to the lie. Neither woman honestly expected him to reach out, but only Eliza hoped he would for _reasons_.

_And that was even less than NEVER going to happen._

Mycroft had stayed locked in the office the third day with Anthea, as he put things into play to secretly get his dead brother, otherwise alive and well, out of the country with whatever he needed to begin his mission. He remembered the feel of his younger brother’s slender yet muscular frame as they hugged. They hugged before he climbed into the crate that would smuggle him to Gatwick and off to the first of many stops in his self appointed mission.

_We hugged!_

Proof positive of the words both felt, but even then neither could speak. The dangers they knew Sherlock was throwing himself into body and soul for a man he is in love with but cannot tell him such.

So yes, the dark stormy skies that enveloped London in its morose temperament was quite fitting. After 72 hours of next to no sleep, having received notification that Sherlock had safely arrived at his first stop, all he wanted was to go home, have a couple of snifters of brandy, take his migraine medication – which he damned well knew he should not have alcohol with, but did not care, and simply pass out.

He heard the rain as it slammed against the windows in sheets of Shakespearean fury.

_Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage, blow!_

The house was completely dark when he arrived, but the moment he stepped through the door and locked it, Mycroft knew _he_ was there.

His cologne, the scent of musk and woods, pervaded the air, subtle but intoxicating.

Mycroft frowned, he was supposed to be in his office at NSY.

_How the bloody hell did he even get in here?_

When news of Sherlock's suicide had reached the public media Mycroft had toyed with the idea of calling him, but discarded it quickly. Partly out of a reluctance to pull him into the intrigue, because the less people that knew the truth the better. But mostly out of a sense of self-loathing that his own need should be so obvious.

_Yet he came to me anyway. Be honest with yourself Mycroft and count your blessings._

Mycroft hung up his coat and carefully placed his umbrella in its stand. He slipped off his suit jacket and walked into his home office. Except for the dimmed desk lamp the room was in darkness. The lamp gave off just enough light that he glimpsed the tips of spiked silver hair over the leather wing chair.

_He had run his hands through his hair again, making it stand on end._

Mycroft knew he was equally tired and frustrated. The press and his superiors had and still hounded him relentlessly in the fall out. 

_Hello, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade._

Outwardly he sighed and went to the wet bar and poured them both glasses of scotch. "Hello, Lestrade. I see you’ve taken a page form Sherlock’s book and let yourself in.”

_God, I am so ashamed of how glad I am to see you._

Gregory barely moved in the chair, but his gravelly voice carried across the room. "You can’t tell me no if I don’t ask you, can you? And we both know you were _not_ going to ask me. "

Mycroft ignored his words, concentrated on what he was doing, kept his Iceman mask in place.

"You should be at NSY investigating this." He was proud at his icily delivered statement.

“Oh please! Don’t Mycroft, just _don’t_.”  Gregory exhaled wearily. Mycroft turned as the detective inspector stood.

A streak of lightening flashed just then and for a moment Mycroft saw him clearly.

Tall, rugged. He had made himself comfortable. Suit jacket off, cuff of his shirt sleeves unbuttoned and pushed to his elbows. His strong hands and forearms exposed, but it was Gregory’s face that caught Mycroft’s attention. The extra lines that gave testament to the toll the past three days have had on him as well.

_So open, honest, wanting and so very tired. And I have yet to tell him why Sherlock jumped. Can I? What will his knowing of such do to him? It would break him, I can’t. Stay strong Mycroft. You can’t have this, not now._

"What are you babbling about, Gregory?"

"Ooooh, you’re so NOT bullshittin' me today, mate! I ain’t havin’ it!" Gregory snapped angrily. When Gregory was angry, the East End lad he once was crept into his speech. The respected man, well decorated officer he had become overrode it, but it was still there beneath it if you knew what to listen for.

Gregory took a breath before he spoke again.

"We know what crock that bullshit Kitty Riley wrote was! I am being lambasted at NSY for falling prey to your brother’s presumed lies. It's a shite storm out there. And…  And oddly enough, you popped into my head _again_. I thought about what you must be going through and suddenly I found I did not give _a single fuck_ about anything or anyone else out there after that, Mycroft Holmes."

Mycroft had turn back to the bar to finish pouring the drinks, but he heard the heartbroken anger in the detective inspector's words.

_Oh Gregory! I can’t!_

Only because he was in the safety of his own home, and it was Gregory, that Mycroft had relaxed his guard. He leaned against the bar, desperate to pull together the emotions that were rapidly falling out of his control. He spent so many years keeping everything in an iron grip. He had forgotten the strength of a soft touch.

Until he felt Gregory’s touch on his shoulder.

Mycroft had not heard Gregory approach.

_When had I become so comfortable in his presence?_

At first tentative, when Mycroft did not immediately reject Gregory's touch, it became bolder, landing solidly on his shoulder. Mycroft could feel the heat of Gregory's hand as it traveled to rest between his shoulder blades.

"Don't shut me out, Mycroft." Gregory's whisper pleaded, "I know you and your brother put up this public front that you don't care, that you feel nothing for each other, but I know it’s all lies. You know I saw you two when it counted, I know it. I know Sherlock would not have jumped unless someone else’s life depended on it. I don’t know all the details, but I know he must have done it for John..."  

“He did it for you also…”

“What?”

_Oh God! I said that out loud…_

Not knowing what else to do, he threw back the glass of scotch, enjoyed the burn down the back of his throat.

“Mycroft…?” Gregory’s voice wavered as he began to understand. “He jumped…? For John? For… _me_?”

Mycroft turned and the hand against his back, landed on his heart. He had raised his own hand to move it away, but could not make himself do it, instead he placed his hand on top and held it tightly against him as he explained exactly why Sherlock Holmes jumped from the roof of St. Bart's.

“In spite of his insults, I knew he liked me, respected me. I knew he wouldn't have put up with me otherwise, but…” Gregory hoarsely choked back a sob as he took a shuddered breath.

A sound of such pain escaped Gregory’s lips.

Mycroft realized Gregory had never considered himself worthy of Sherlock’s care.

_Not to this degree, he didn't know. Oh Brother Mine, another one you did not tell!_

Mycroft knew that pain, had felt it each and every time he was informed his baby brother was found drugged out in yet another doss house, another drug den, another back alley.  How Sherlock would curse him, and then make promises he would not keep. Not until he met then Sergeant Lestrade who offered Sherlock something better than drugs. 

"Yes, he cared deeply for you, Gregory. You, Mrs. Hudson, Dr. Hooper and of course John Watson. You are the only ones beyond the immediate family who saw past the façade he showed the world and saw _him_. The only ones who didn’t run from him, but to him. I know you haven’t forgotten how you and I met in that drug den, Gregory. You arrived before me. I had no idea who you were when I heard you talking to him. I saw how you turned him when he nearly choked on his own vomit. I saw you how you lifted him to his feet from the floor before I stepped in. I know you saw us then. That you saw the truth of who my brother and I are to each other. And even then you turned a blind eye. The first of so many, because even then you understood at some level that you had to, before you truly knew why. You saved my brother, Gregory. You did! And I never, ever thanked you. Ever…”  Mycroft's voice, at first strong, petered out to a near whisper at the end. An idle part of him noted that though it still rained harshly, the storm had eased, as he stood close, so close to Gregory. 

“I know who you are, Mycroft. You know I know what you really do. I know I become a target and understand that is why you would not come to me. I am telling you I don't care and this why I am here for you now. I know I am not wrong when I say I believe you and I were working toward each other before this happened. I am being selfish in coming here now, because I was afraid of your stepping back from me. That we would lose time or worse lose a chance for something at all. I know I am not wrong, Mycroft. Please, don’t push me away.”  

Gregory’s words had cut deep through the storm of emotions that roiled within Mycroft.

The fear. The desire. The need.

The _hope_.

Oh, how Mycroft hoped!

Mycroft especially heard the words Gregory had not said. He heard those the loudest of all because those unspoken words were his as well.

Mycroft had never felt so sick and yet so wonderful at the same time.

Still, he shuddered as he let go of Gregory's hand. "Oh, Gregory. I can’t."

Neither man remembered having moved, yet they were in each other’s arms when Mycroft’s mobile buzzed and broke the magnetic spell that had pulled them together. Mycroft let it go to voicemail knowing who called.

Gregory stepped back to let Mycroft answer it, but Mycroft had not moved except to take the phone from his pocket.

In Mycroft's silence the detective inspector walked to the armchair and picked up his coat.

_He’s leaving? No! Oh, he thinks I want privacy!_

“Gregory, wait. I… I think…” Mycroft gripped the mobile tight.

_Say it Mycroft! You know. You know he knows. Don’t make him do all the work._

“I think... There’s something you need to know.” Mycroft opened his mobile and put it on speakerphone, then played the message unvetted.

“In all that was happening, Mycroft, I forgot to say _thank you_ …” a familiar baritone was heard.

Gregory’s eyes went wide as he recognized the voice. He grinned with joy and laughed. “Oh, you bastard!”

_I was right, he’s not surprised and so happy that my brother is alive._

Mycroft could not help the smile that came to his own face for it as they continued to listen to Sherlock's message.

“…Oh, and a word of advice, from someone who won’t take his own. You know you love him. You know he loves you. If he comes to you, tell him. Don’t do this alone, Mycroft. Tell Greg. Whether you tell him about me is your call, but I can see him wanting to reach out to you now. Do not push him away, Brother Mine. Now, back to business - I’ll check in with you when I reach…”

Mycroft stopped the message at that point and waited. 

“You knew it was him that called and you let me listen, not knowing what he was going to say…” Gregory smiled in wonder as he put his coat down again, “You just wanted me to know he’s alive.”

“Yes.” Mycroft admitted as he pocketed the mobile again. “You don’t need to know anything else.”

“Know about what else? Sherlock Holmes is dead.” Gregory nodded in solemn understanding as he walked back to Mycroft.

_He understands the trust I have just placed in him. He will not tell._

“I came to you, Mycroft…” Gregory said gently as he stood in front of him again and waited expectantly, “He knows... You have his permission to find some happiness in this fiasco. Is there something you want to say to me…? The storm's over. Say it for the both of us, Myc. Can you do it now?”

Gregory had never used a diminutive with him before knowing he hated them, yet it sounded so _right_ coming from his lips.

Mycroft reached out, cupped Gregory's face and stepped closer, breathed in the scent of him, A different type of storm brewed within Mycroft as he unashamedly allowed himself to  _feel_ for the man before him.

_He’s right this is the end of the storm. That must be a sign from the universe. Reach for that branch he offers and hold tight. You can do this._

The words and his lips fall upon Gregory's...

“I love you.”


End file.
